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A.M. Demotte Poem
The act of falling
Isn’t hard.
Anyone can do it:
step off an edge,
be pushed, or jump.
The key is to
find the one
tumbling through
space and time,
at the exact same
rate as you;
grab on tightly,
and in grounding,
each spread an arm
and fly.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2021
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A.M. Demotte Poem
My loved ones gone
visit dreams of
cyan fields and
pixie cloud skies.
Is it a cruel trick
of the mind?
Or moments, out
of space and time;
caught in the weft
of our corduroy lives;
a small gift granted
to our past or
future selves?
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2022
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A.M. Demotte Poem
What is it,
to be a broken thing?
A glass, carelessly chipped
on the edge of the sink; or
a plate, smashed in anger.
To be placed at the back of the
kitchen shelf and forgotten, or
swept out with the trash on Tuesday.
Tender branches are ripped asunder all the time
by force of wind and storm; made
sudden stranger to the trunk and roots
that once were all they knew.
But humans are familiar;
we can be damaged from misuse, too.
Hearts and minds are fragile things,
even more than brittle bones.
"Careful" we whisper, ashamed,
"do not cut yourself on my sharp ends"
We bandage and hide our wounds away,
terrified for the world to see.
But the ancient Japanese knew
that a shattered bowl can become art,
if you accept and honor each crack and scar;
lovingly traced with brilliant gold.
An orphaned tree limb, itself,
could become the paper bearing
tender words to a lover far away;
and so, find a way to fly.
One day will we see:
that we are not ruined,
just matter reformed?
Scar tissue knit finally over bone;
careful stitchwork wrought by loving hands.
Composed of healed fractures
and patchwork hearts:
forever changed but beautiful
in newfound strength; capable of
things never dreamt of before.
Not whole,
but something more.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2023
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A.M. Demotte Poem
What is it like,
to be a broken thing?
A glass,
carelessly chipped
on the edge of
the sink;
a plate
smashed in anger.
To be placed
at the back of
the kitchen cabinet
and forgotten,
or swept out with the
trash on Tuesday.
Careful, we whisper,
ashamed.
I am sharp.
Do not cut yourself
on my jagged edges.
Until one day,
if fortune is kind,
we meet someone
and find,
their edges
fit with ours:
like your hand
in mine.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2021
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A.M. Demotte Poem
My lover tells me stories;
painted on my lips with his,
sketched on skin by hands,
in a language only we
have ever known.
They will be lost to time
when our bodies become dust,
but our bones will whisper
them to each other,
where they lay in the earth.
And in one hundred years
and more, the trees that grow
in the ground above
will carry our love
on their leaves.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2021
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A.M. Demotte Poem
I know it's late now,
to say that
I would have loved
to tell you
what you meant
to me.
When words
are grenades,
what can you do but
leave the pin intact?
I was just trying
to keep us
all alive.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2022
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A.M. Demotte Poem
The words are
intimate as lovers
in my arms;
I taste each sound
gently in my mouth,
rolled around on
tip of tongue;
try them on for size
one by one,
tracing their shapes
with tender care;
guard them
jealously against
reproach, and
hold them closely
to my heart in
the dark of night.
If not to remember,
then at least to declare,
in this moment:
I felt this.
I was here.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2022
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A.M. Demotte Poem
Physics and experience tell us
that two poles of a magnet
(north and south)
are irrevocably,
irrepressibly
drawn;
their trajectory,
the destruction
and creation in their path,
no less inevitable
than the stars in the sky
the gods placed there
to teach us how to dream.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2021
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A.M. Demotte Poem
red, the shade of my shackles
red, the color of blood
red, the way that I burn for you
above all these is Love
**Bite Size Poem no50 Poetry Contest**
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2022
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A.M. Demotte Poem
Tell me:
why is it that
when you left,
it became harder
for me to breathe?
As if where you went,
the oxygen followed,
certainly as bewitched
by you as I.
The air here seeming
thinner;
my lungs somehow
weaker;
as if compressed
by the weight
of my heart.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2022
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